The First Moment of Trust
by marinoa
Summary: Their history was full of hatred - what else could their future provide?


AN: Oh dear. I haven't written anything for so, so long time! But the other night I just sat down and wrote whatever came to my mind – and this is what ensued. So, my friends, please welcome me back in the world of FrUK by reading this little fic. ^^ Enjoy!

**The First Moment of Trust**

Silence was pregnant, it was heavier than any words could ever be. It was not frightening, empty kind of silence – no, Arthur heard cracking of flames in the fireplace and howling of wind outside the castle perfectly well. He could even hear a faint sound of people chattering somewhere in the lower floors of the castle if he focused enough, though the sound was easily drowned in the noise of rain beating hard against the only, closed window in the room. And he could hear the breathing of the only person who was in the room with him.

The clearest of all he could hear that breathing.

The room was rather large, it was in the uppermost floor of the castle where the most respected guests were usually accommodated. The most respected – yes. But on this occasion, 'respected' might be a wrong choice of words. This time the room was given for Arthur – and his bitterest enemy of all times.

The heavy, awkward silence was not because the two enemies were left alone, for normally in such situations air would be thick of exchanged insults or swords clanging against one another. No, silence was stretched between them because the two long-time enemies were to be enemies no longer. And when you had passionately hated somebody, when you were _told_ to hate for almost whole your life, what was there to say when suddenly you were supposed not to?

Because _Arthur_ was _England_, and how could _England_ suddenly befriend _France_? How could he cast everything he was taught before aside and start it all over, when not half an hour ago the two of them had stood outside, trying to pierce each other with their swords?

And almost succeeded, nonetheless. Arthur's right arm was bleeding, and France had just finished binding up the wound on his thigh. Their battle had been intruded very unexpectedly, both of their leaders appearing and announcing something akin to _friendly_ relationship starting between the two nations, between England and France. They had made their announcement and gone to celebrate, leaving the two to come to terms with one another.

But it was not _right_. It _couldn't_ be.

Hence the silence. The deep, unbreakable silence between France and himself.

Arthur was sitting closer to the fire, attempting to bind up his own wound. Doing so was not easy; the wound was in his right arm, so he could only use the left one to complete the task. France, on the other hand, had positioned himself at the window, keeping a safe distance between himself and his – what? Arthur didn't know what that frog thought of the whole situation, didn't know what he now was to his used-to-be enemy. Just like he no more knew what the French nation was to be to him. Old feelings of hatred die hard – the uncertainty was mutual.

It was weird, though. Arthur was young, for his kind. Both of them were. In spite of that, they were taught to hate. And yet, yet somewhere in distant past Arthur could remember – or better said, _sense_ – vague kindness. Old, odd warmness, peculiar but – shared. The memory felt like a dream, and later hate had replaced all its warmness, but now, now when the raw violence had to be put aside, that dream slowly awakened. And Arthur had to open his eyes to the fact that he was afraid. He was lost and confused before the new unknown, and what was better chance for fear to grow if not that?

Arthur raised his emerald eyes from his now poorly bind wound and looked up at France, at the young blond hardly even old enough to be called a man yet. _We are not enemies anymore,_ he tried to tell himself, _we needn't fight anymore._ But still, still he felt an urge to grab his sword and thrust it through the beating heart of his used-to-be enemy.

As if sensing the thoughts of the Englishman, France turned his face to Arthur and looked him directly in the eye with his sapphire ones. His face was stoic – he showed no anger, no pain. No kindness. He was probably just as lost as Arthur.

Neither of them dared break the eye contact. First it was like a battle – neither was ready to surrender, not first at least – but then, then Arthur began to see deeper than the mere surface where _England_ had challenged _France_ or maybe vice versa. Somewhere beneath still, blank stare of the blue eyes, somewhere behind strong barriers, somewhere there in depths of eternity, _Arthur_ caught a glimpse of _Francis_.

He blinked, and the moment was gone.

The blue eyes were looking at him, and the same confusion Arthur felt he saw on the elegant face of his no-longer enemy. Suddenly fear engulfed him – a fear that France had seen _Arthur_ the very same way Arthur had seen _Francis_. Fear tangled together with hate and painfully stroke the Englishman's heart. _Never reveal too much about yourself to your enemy. _And yet. _He no longer is my enemy._

The blue eyes dropped from the green, lower, and stopped at the wound on Arthur's right arm. France stared at it blankly before slowly standing up, hesitantly, as if his body was working without his mind's permission. Not uttering a word either, Arthur watched France limping closer, watched without any idea of what else to do. Time seemed to slow down and all sounds vanished save for those of shallow breaths and beating hearts.

France stopped right before Arthur and, with unreadable expression, knelt down beside him. He stared at the wound for a while and Arthur stared at the point where France's curly hair met his shoulder. France looked again in the green eyes then, and there was nothing else Arthur could actually do but look back. His expression was cold, he knew, but France's blank one was not better.

The silence was deeper than ever.

And then

it ended.

"This is terribly bandaged." France's voice was nonchalant; he was simply making a statement.

"With one hand," Arthur responded just as evenly. It was a warrior talking to another, not enemy to enemy or friend to friend.

France nodded. He made to raise his hands, but hesitated and looked back at Arthur. He inhaled deeply as if to muster more power to force the words out and spoke, slowly, maybe to make sure that Arthur would hear and understand, maybe for other reasons. "I am going to bind it up properly."

And on hearing those words, Arthur realised he was more afraid than on battlefields ever.

Because never before had England and France touched one another. Not without an intention to hurt at least. _Never_.

Never..?

France glanced up at Arthur and he nodded slowly, giving him the permission. And so _France_ melted away, _England_ melted, and all that was left was _Francis_, and _Arthur_. And it was frightening. Because that was when Arthur realised it was something more... _They_ were something more. He had a feeling, a strong sensation that it was a point of no return. There was something so much _greater_ about them than what they knew, what they or their leaders could ever imagine, something that was far above their hate. And Arthur realised, like a flash of lightning in complete darkness, he realised that-

"We are in a circle," Francis said quietly, as if only to himself, reaching to Arthur's wound with his hands. "We will always be tied together. In bad and- and good."

"Trapped," Arthur added, not quite realising he had said it aloud.

Francis touched his arm. He jerked away without a second thought.

Both men, _boys_ even, stared at each other with wide eyes. Arthur's instincts were screaming at him to quickly grab his knife and stab the intruder of his personal space, and Francis, he, Arthur didn't know what he felt. Though if quickened breathing was something to judge by, the Frenchman was fighting himself, too. Slowly their eyes met, and a silent agreement to try again was made.

Francis reached once more and carefully began undoing the failed bandage. Arthur didn't even flinch at the physical pain – he barely even noticed it. Instead he had to fight himself, to assure his own mind and body that this time, this time he was not to hurt the man beside him. Apparently Francis was going through something similar to Arthur's fight, because both men were breathing heavily of the effort.

And slowly slowly, their breathing calmed a bit, then a bit more. Subconsciously, without even being aware of it, Arthur's and Francis' tension started to melt away. Some sort of connection was bound between the two. An unspoken trust was born.

The touches were careful, hesitant. One wrong movement, and everything they had just achieved would break into deadly fight. Arthur was starting to shiver – continuously being on the edge was mentally exhausting – and Francis' fingers were shaking. The newly born trust was unsure, hesitant. And so incredibly _intimate._ Arthur had never experienced anything like that before. Not once in his whole life, not once during those hundreds of years of growing nation – never.

Fragile. It was all so incredibly _fragile_.

The old bondage fell on the floor. Francis was standing on his knees, breathing hard as if having just run the stairs up and down... or as if after a particularly tough battle. He raised his eyes at Arthur's again, and the Englishman returned the look, swallowing hard. Drawing few times air deep in his lungs, the Frenchman took a new bondage and started binding up the wound he himself was responsible for. Arthur closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

And then it was all done.

Francis stood up and shook his head, then positioned himself on a chair next to Arthur's.

"Thank you." Arthur's voice was cool again – a warrior talking to another.

"Don't mention it."

The cracking of fire and sounds from outside made themselves audible again, and for a long, long moment neither of the nations uttered a word.

"This is going to be hard," Arthur finally said, watching into the fire.

"_Oui_." The answer was quiet but firm. "Our future is not to be a bed of roses."

There was nothing to add to that – Arthur knew it was true. The hate had too deep roots within them, roots that had originated in the far past.

But there had been a time _before_ those roots were planted, time before hatred. A dream, a memory, a sensation – Arthur didn't know what it was. But it was real nonetheless.

He closed his eyes and dreamt.

X


End file.
